


philtatos

by uraa



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M, Purple Prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8722078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uraa/pseuds/uraa
Summary: “Why do you love me?”It’s almost a selfish question.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'll never be able to write like madeline miller but boy howdy i sure can try
> 
> i read tsoa like 6 months ago so apologies for inaccuracies and pat/achilles being ooc ;;

“Why do you love me?”

It’s almost a selfish question. I know the breadth and depth of how I love him; I am filled with memories so rich and fruitful that I could write them onto a thousand pages and not exhaust them all. I have told him this, through halting, broken phrases, under the cover of darkness or noise, where the embarrassment of the words never hit full force. For a time I did not know exactly what I was ashamed of. I was not ashamed to love him; no one could be, and it was not the words themselves; they were simple and honest and rawly truthful. I think, now, that it was because of the vulnerability of it, even with someone as close to my soul as he was. In time I learned to let the shame fade, although the feeling that prompted the words has not—I contain enough love for him to pour and pour and never run dry.

He knows all of this, while I know the extent and sincerity of his love for me, but not the reason. So it is really not a selfish question at all.

“Patroclus,” he says. I have always fixated on that word in his mouth—in his mouth the consonants are careful, sharp, precise. My name feels like  _ mine _ when he says it. This morning his voice across the syllables is like a stone skipping over water. “Should I tell you again?” The finger of one hand traces the palm of mine, running along the creases in my skin. The contrast of the shades of our hands together is familiar and beautiful. “I have enough to say about one inch of your skin to fill hours.” His eyes slip over the tapering point where my hand meets wrist; he presses his thumb softly against the veins. I can feel my pulse fluttering beneath his touch.

“I did not ask how,” I say, “I asked why.”

“Why?” he repeats, fingers sliding from my wrist to interlace with mine. “It is because…” he is quiet for several seconds, the rush of air around us swallowing his words. Through the thick silence I hear a bird sing somewhere outside the window, its voice thin and hollow across the distance. For a moment we both listen, and then he frowns, creases soft on his brow. “Why do  _ you _ love  _ me _ ?”

My throat fills, a well of golden water. It almost threatens to choke me, to seep into my lungs, the extent of the emotion so great I cannot name it. I think if I allowed myself to feel it fully I might never stop sinking to its depths—and I do not know where the bottom of it is, or if it has a bottom at all.

I shake my head. “I cannot put it into words.”

He smiles gently, without teeth, more eyes than mouth. His breath on the exhale is delicate against my cheek. “It is the same for me.”

My gaze slips from his, a difficult thing when our faces are resting only a hand's width apart. He must see my dissatisfaction in some reaction of my body, because his hand tightens around mine.

“If I had a way to say it, I would,” he says. “But words escape me.”

I huff. “Words rarely escape you.”

A ripple across his face: fondness, exasperation. “Is it such a surprise that you are the exception?”

I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my face, just slightly, and I let it blossom. “But you still have not answered the question.” I shift infinitesimally closer, letting our noses brush. “If words escape you, then do not use them.”

I see his eyes flick quickly to my lips and back up again, and for a moment my breath hitches, anticipating the rushing sensation that comes with his mouth against mine. But he frowns, and draws back, and does not take the bait. “Patroclus,” he says, a second time; I savor the sound of it. “I love you because you are yourself. No one else is like you, is as important as you are.”

I almost want to laugh. 'As important as I am'? To him, perhaps, but certainly not to anyone else. They will sing his name for centuries; mine will be lost once this generation of warriors dies. To love him is common sense; to love me is an anomaly. People know me, and enjoy my presence, and are grateful for my help, but they do not love me.

His voice falls hollow on my ears. I still am not satisfied.

I bite my lip as if it could keep the words in, but they crowd together and push into the air through the spaces of my teeth. I hear them escape, and am helpless to stop them. “I love you because you are  _ Achilles _ ,” I say, “ _ Aristos achaion _ .” The syllables burst in my mouth like berries, and I can almost feel the juice of them sluicing down my chin. He is like a magnet for fame—worthy, deserving, meant for love. “You are a hero. What part of me is as easy to love as you are? It is not natural to love me as you do. You must have a reason.”

The torrent of words in the midst of our slow, soft conversation is as surprising to me as it is for him.

His eyes are wide and hurting—not for himself, I realize, but for me. “But it is,” he says, imploringly, “loving you is natural— as fighting is, as breathing.” He pauses. “I suppose loving you is the foil to the part of me that comes from my mother.”

_ It is the part that is merciless, _ I think, remembering Thetis, remembering the ease with which he takes life.  _ And terrifying. _

He does not hear my thoughts; he smiles, and continues: “I suppose  _ you _ are the foil to it.”

Me, his tether to humanity—I can be satisfied with that status. I say so, and his smile widens into a grin.

His lips ghost against mine, eyes glowing in the clear, rippling sunlight that comes through the window. It would be best to leave the subject be, to press forward into his mouth, to spend the morning lazy and dozing and passing soft words between us. But I am still so desperate to understand— not to reassure myself that he honestly loves me, but out of some nameless need for gratification. It is half bitterness, half insecurity.

“You still have not answered the question,” I say. “Why?”

The word catches in my throat.

His mouth twists, his brows knit. It is like his entire face has decided to contort. “Is it so important?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, and then after a moment, “no. I do not know.” The breeze from the window is pushing a curl of hair against my cheek, and the sensation is grating. I tuck it behind my ear. “I suppose,” I say haltingly, “I am frustrated because you love me even though I do not know what about me is worthy of being loved so much—and is worthy of being loved by someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” he echoes. “Is this about the fact that I have immortal blood?” His expression is almost disappointed.

“It is not only about that. A goddess did not make your heart, only your skill. Your mother’s blood is not the only reason why you are a hero.”

“You say that because you love me.”

“I say that because it is true!”

He is silent for a second, thinking. “You speak of my heart, but- they are all just so big. My emotions, I mean. How many have I ruined with my temper? They just come out. I cannot contain them—they are like a god enraged.”

“But how many have you loved?” I say, “how many have you cared for? Your kindness is just as great as the reach of your spear. Yes, your hands have killed, because that is your gift.” I brush his cheek with the pad of my thumb. “But they have also touched me with such tenderness.”

“Patroclus,” he says fondly, he places his hand over mine; his eyes shine. “You say this, and wonder why you are worthy of being loved? You find the goodness in people—it is not easy to love me, and yet you do. In terms of heart it is I who does not deserve you.”

The words come to me quickly. “It is the easiest thing in the world to love you.”

“You see? My point is proven.” He laughs, softly, the sound more familiar to me than my own. It is comforting. His teeth flash white between his lips—I want to swallow the sound of his voice with my own.

I do.

“I love the way you are, the way you exist,” he continues against my mouth. “There is not some part of you that I do not adore.”

“I am glad the feeling is mutual.”

"I as well."

"I suppose it is quite an honor to be loved by the son of a goddess," I tease. I do not anticipate the look of uneasiness that comes over his face, and rush to amend my mistake, although I do not understand what I did wrong. "I was only joking." A pause. "What did I say?"

"You did not mean that," he asks, seeking reassurance. 

"No. It is an honor to be loved by  _ you _ , son of a goddess or not."

His face lightens with relief. "There. That is another reason, since you ask for them."

"You love me because I feel that I am lucky to be loved by you?"

"Yes, by  _ me _ ," he says. "Achilles--mortal, human. Not the part meant for killing. I am not a god. That part,  _ Aristos achaion, _ belongs to my mother, to the Acheans, to the world. Mostly I am very much a mortal—and that belongs to you.” He pauses. “I suppose no one really sees me as one, as you do."

I think on it. It had never really occurred to me, that most men would not know the version of him that I do. They have not heard the bright wings of his laugh, seen the earth-green of his eyes or the soft swirl of golden hairs at his navel. I know how he wrinkles his nose with embarrassment, and the face he makes when he bites into an overripe fig. And few have seen him bleed, but if they had, they would have known then that he was truly one of them--he bleeds bright red and with a copper tang, the blood of mortals. 

He is very human. He  _ is _ a human, I have seen it; he is not like Thetis, he is not a god.  I take it for granted.

He has given me answer, and in response I feel my chest expand, laden with happiness. “So you do have reasons?” I say, "to love me?"

He lets out a breath, and strips of white light pass across his face as the curtains wave in the breeze, patterning it with contrast so sharp it is almost painful to look at. “Do you need a reason?” he says finally, “do you ever have a reason for falling in love, for loving someone?” His voice is sure and bold and steady as a cliffside. “There are none. The ones I have given you are not  _ why _ I love you, they fall short of the truth. Love cannot be contained within them. I  _ do. _ That is all.”

I smile, and feel the warmth of his forehead pressed against mine. 

“That is enough.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i honestly had TONS of fun writing this, purple prose is my roots and i love going back to it, even though it just reads as a poor imitation of madeline miller :'')  
> tsoa isnt a fandom im usually active in but if you want to chat you can find me at shadowhy on tumblr!


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